Painting Music
by picascribit
Summary: Weeks after the Dowager Dance, on the eve of Paul's sixteenth birthday, the boys decide to take things to the next level. Warning: explicit underage sex. PaulxNoah


It's a few weeks after the Dowager Dance, and Noah and I are in his studio, as usual, painting music. Not to say I'm always with Noah these days - I'm not going to make that mistake after the fiasco with Joni - but now that we're together, I make a point of spending time together for at least a few hours most days.

Today, though, Noah doesn't seem into his art like he normally is. We've been working for a couple of hours, but right now, he's just standing there, staring at the canvas almost like he's not seeing it, with the paint drying on his brush. I put the finishing touches on my own painting - an abstract piece of the two of us dancing, the sky behind us a mixture of the colour of his eyes and mine - and then walk over to see what he's been working on.

He is clearly Elsewhere, and doesn't seem to notice me right away. His painting is a wild jumble of great swathes and slashes of red, edged in a dark, mysterious purple. I think I see two overlapping, shadowy pairs of lips hidden amid the storm of feeling.

When I put a hand on his arm, Noah comes back to earth with a jerk.

"Sorry," I say. "What is it?"

His eyes turn away from the painting and find mine. "It's what it feels like, kissing you," he says quietly. His eyes are very green, and his expression is unfathomable. "But I can't get it quite right. Help me?"

Entranced by his eyes, I slowly raise my hand to wrap around his, holding the brush, and I lean in to kiss him.

Suddenly, my back is against the wall, and Noah's mouth is on mine, bruising. My hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, and his slide up under mine, feeling the bare skin of my back. Noah's whole body is pressed to mine, like he's dying and I've got what he needs to survive. I feel dizzy, like we're at the center of the rotation of the universe, and everything is spinning but us.

His hands are on the button of my jeans, and then he stops, drawing back a little. "Have you ever -?" he asks hoarsely.

"No," I whisper.

I've had a few boyfriends in my time, for days or weeks or even months sometimes, but when you don't feel right being naked with someone in other ways, somehow taking your clothes off with them never made much sense to me. But in the months since I met Noah, we've been naked to one another in every way possible - every way but this.

My hands go to the fly of his jeans, but my eyes never leave his as I unbutton, unzip, slide my hand down into his boxers. "No, I've never done this before."

His skin is hot and sticky with sweat, and as I stroke the hardness in my hand, he closes his eyes and moans - he _moans_ - and it's the most gorgeous sound I've ever heard. Then his mouth is on mine again, and his fingers are back, fumbling with my jeans, unfastening them and shoving them down over my hips.

The cool air of the studio hits my hot skin like a shockwave, and then Noah's hand is wrapped tight around me, stroking, and it feels better than anything I've ever felt or imagined, because it's _Noah_ doing it.

He's impatiently trying to shove his own pants farther down, one handed, and I help him. And suddenly we're pressed together, skin to skin, and Noah's paint-smeared hand is wrapped around both of us, stroking us together, and now I feel like _I'm_ the one who's going to die if he ever stops touching me like that.

"Please -" I murmur against his lips.

"God, Paul -"

And then Noah throws his head back with a whimper, and suddenly the hand wrapped around our cocks is slippery, and it's just too much, and I know I'm making some noises of my own, but there's no help for that as I press my forehead against his shoulder and come harder than I've ever come before in my life.

For a moment, everything stops, and the only sound in the studio is our breathing. Then the next song starts, and the world starts to fall into place again. Noah steps away, and my back slides down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, feeling stunned. A minute later, he's back with the towel he keeps handy for painting mishaps. He's already buttoned up again, but his awe at what just happened is still written all over his face. He crouches down and hands me the towel.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." I'm still a little too stunned for facial expressions. "Never better. What time is it?"

"Time you should be getting home for dinner," Noah admits regretfully.

He gives me a hand up, and doesn't avert his eyes as I take a minute to put myself back together.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" I ask, once my clothes are back in reasonable order.

"No," he says, surprising me. I'm not sure I can breathe without him after what we just did. "There's some things I need to do tomorrow. How about the day after?"

The day after tomorrow is my sixteenth birthday. There's going to be a big party in the evening, courtesy of my parents and my brother Jay. They're calling it a "coming out" party, just like in the old days, even though I did that years ago. But Noah's not talking about the party. That's fine with me. I'm looking forward to having everyone over for a big get-together, but right now, there's no gift I would rather have for my birthday than a few hours alone with Noah.

"Day after tomorrow," I agree, as a grin slowly spreads over my face.

* * *

Noah has destroyed me. Two days feels like a year, and I can't focus on anything. I try. School is important, and my friends doubly so. I half-listen and nod sympathetically when Kyle complains to me about his boyfriend Tony's ultra-religious parents, and all the rules and sneaking around that have to go on. I do my best to give my attention to Joni. She and Chuck broke up the week after the Dowager Dance, and we're still feeling our way toward putting our friendship back together.

My mind is Elsewhere, but it's a Somewhere kind of Elsewhere, because it's in the studio with Noah. He and I exchange smiles in the halls, and every now and then, our hands touch, but we don't pass any notes - things have gone beyond words - and we never kiss at school; it's too public. What we have is special and private and not to be shared with anyone else.

At the end of the school day on my birthday, I'm waiting at Noah's locker almost as soon as the final bell has rung. Noah arrives a minute later and smiles at me. Our fingers lace together, and without a word, we walk the short distance to Noah's house. His parents are out of town on business again, and his little sister Claudia goes to school across town, and has band practice on Thursday afternoons. Someone's mom will drop her off at my party later. The house is ours.

We don't have to go to the studio for privacy; we can have that in Noah's amazing, whimsical bedroom. But the bedroom feels like family space - too public for us, even if we're the only ones there. The studio is ours and ours alone. I follow Noah through the closet passageway and up into the old chimney, trying not to feel nervous. It's _Noah_. Being nervous of him seems ridiculous to me.

Noah has decorated the studio. There are four paintings tacked up - one on each wall, like an art gallery - and a single red rose standing in a vase next to a bed laid out on the floor.

He takes my hand and leads me to the first painting. It's not one I recognise. The shapes in it are spiky black squiggles of excitement and electricity, stark against the white paper, with here and there a spark of hopeful color.

"I painted this the day after I met you," Noah says simply. It needs no further explanation.

The second painting is the one Noah did the other day. He's finished it off with a swirling double-helix in silver and gold, which barely seems able to contain the heart-pounding red and passionate purple.

The third painting I can tell is new. It's an abstract again, but right away, I see what it's of.

"It's us," I say, awed.

Noah nods, wordless.

Two indistinct black shapes appear to be struggling to merge with one another against a background like a fireworks display, shimmering in every color imaginable.

The last painting isn't abstract. It's of the bed on the floor. The blanket is even rumpled in exactly the same way. In the painting, the rose is lying on the pillow, and to either side of it, are painted two words: "you" and "me".

Noah bends down and plucks the rose from its vase, then turns to me. He wraps both my hands around the stem, and both his hands around mine, searching my eyes.

He takes a deep breath. "I just wanted to say - before we go any further - I love you, Paul. I love what we have. I don't want - I don't mean for you to feel pressured, or anything. If you're not ready, or you're not sure, we don't have to -"

"I'm sure," I say, stepping closer and kissing him softly. "I love you, too, Noah. I want to have this with you."

He gives me a nervous half smile that makes me a little weak in the knees. "Oh. Good. Happy birthday."

I draw him down to sit beside me on the bed, since he seems suddenly unsure how to proceed. It's really more of a mat with pillows and blankets than a bed - a real bed would have been impossible to get into the secret room - but it's more than adequate for our needs.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers fumbling with nervousness. It takes us an unusually long time to get one another unbuttoned, and by the time we do, we're giggling uncontrollably.

"Maybe it'll be faster if we do our own pants?" I suggest.

Laughing, Noah agrees.

In a moment, we're naked. Noah reaches for my hand and draws me close to him. When our lips meet, there's no more room for laughter - not now - just for the feel of skin against skin, and the air and the music twining around our bodies as we lie down together.

For a minute, we lie just looking at one another, Noah tracing the curve of my collarbone, me discovering his appendicitis scar with my fingers.

"Have you done this before?" I ask softly.

It's not really any of my business, but I'm curious. Noah looks away.

"I've - done some things. Just a couple of times. But not everything."

_With Pitt,_ he doesn't say, but I know. He called Pitt his first, and I've never asked him what he meant by it. It doesn't matter. I want Noah to be my first, but if I can't be his, that's okay; I can be the first who doesn't break his heart.

I kiss him again. "Show me?"

Noah smiles at that. He kisses me for a long time, tasting my mouth and letting his hands wander over my body. I put my arms around him, stroking the smooth planes of his back, enjoying the shiver of goosebumps as I runs my fingernails lightly down his spine. Noah nuzzles at the juncture of my neck and shoulder, then squirms his way down the bed, and I knows where this is going. I may be a virgin, but I'm not entirely ignorant.

Noah meets my eyes, flashing me a quick, shy smile, and then his tongue is - _Oh, God!_ Noah's mouth is hot and sure and I want to watch him do what he's doing, but my mind is busy exploding in a swirl of shapes and colours. I suddenly feel like _I'm_ the music, and Noah is painting me, translating me from sound and emotion to colour and form, and he's awfully damn good at what he's doing, and that marvelous, wild hair is between my fingers, and his mouth is moving, sucking, licking, and I'm arching my back and crying out and collapsing and gasping, boneless as paint.

I feel Noah's chin resting on my hip bone.

"You still there?" he asks.

"I think so. Gimme a minute?"

He laughs softly and moves up to lie beside me. My eyes are slowly coming back into focus.

"Wow. That was -"

"Glad you liked it," he says with a sly grin.

"Did you?" I ask, curious.

"Yeah. You were - beautiful," he says softly, touching my cheek.

My brow furrows. It doesn't seem quite fair. "But _you_ didn't get to -"

Noah shrugs, grinning again. "We've still got an hour or so. I'm not finished with you yet."

I can't help smiling. This sounds promising. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," he says slowly, "we could try that again, the other way around, if you like. Or -"

"Or what?"

Noah is blushing. It's sort of adorable.

"Well, like I said, there's things I haven't done. We could try - something new. For both of us."

My breath catches in my throat. If he's saying what it sounds like he's saying, he is offering me a great gift, and I know it. More than anything, I want to offer him the same in return.

"Noah?" I say, reaching to brush his wild hair back from his face.

"Yeah?"

"I want you to be my first."

He doesn't say anything, just nods, green eyes wide.

I'm aware of the basic mechanics of what we're proposing to do, and so, I assume, is he, but beyond that, we're more or less on our own.

"Can we - ummm - do it face to face, do you think?" I ask uncertainly.

"We can probably work something out."

Noah rummages around under the mat, coming out with a small, foil-wrapped packet and an expensive-looking bottle.

"I thought they might come in handy," he says, blushing again, but he's still smiling.

My hands shake as I help Noah put on the condom, and he kisses me again and tells me to relax. We're not in any hurry. We lie down again, just kissing and touching and being comfortable with one another for a few minutes. Noah's hands are warm. It feels good when he touches me.

Then his hand dips between my legs, cupping my balls out of the way, and his slippery fingers are stroking me in a way that feels surprisingly good. When he pushes a finger inside, I actually moan, drawing my knees up to make more room for him.

"Ready?" Noah asks, breathless.

I swallow nervously. "I thinks so."

"I'll go slow," he promises.

I nod, biting my lip as Noah settles himself between my thighs, kissing my face over and over.

"I love you," he says again.

I can feel the tip of his cock slide against my entrance, and I twine my arms around his back.

"I love you, too," I say.

And then I can feel myself opening, feel Noah pushing inside me, and it's the strangest, most amazing feeling ever. His face is the mirror of my own, eyes wide with terror and desire staring into one another, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, swollen lips held fast between slightly crooked teeth.

For one moment, we're still as a painting, suspended in time between one song and the next.

Then, "Okay?" Noah asks.

"Yeah."

It's nothing like I expected, but somehow it's exactly like I knew it would be. Paul and Noah disappear - innocence and youth are forgotten - and the timeless, mindless pulse of sex takes hold, deep and eternal. Skin and sweat and gasping breath and clutching hands and lips searching, seeking, finding, hips moving together slowly at first, and then faster.

There's this wild, ancient look in Noah's eyes - it's like looking into something primal and perfect - like fire. It's beautiful, and I want to give myself to it.

"Oh, God, Paul!" Noah gasps. "I'm going to -"

His cry is the only music I ever want to paint as his hips stutter to a halt, and he collapses on top of me, as if his spine has been severed.

When he finally raises his head, there's concern shining from his eyes. "Did I hurt you?" he asks.

"No," I say, quickly dashing away the tears that are pure joy. "It was just -"

A slow smile uncurls on my lips, and an answering one illuminates Noah's beautiful face.

"Yeah, it was, wasn't it?" he says.

Our smiles meet, and we kiss for long moments, finding that a more satisfactory way to explain to one another how it was for each of us.

At last, Noah rolls over, and we lie side by side, staring up at the blank canvas of the ceiling, fingers and feet intertwined.

Noah sighs.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

"That we should probably grab a shower before we head over to your place."

I laugh. "Yeah, probably."

"What were you thinking about?" he asks, raising himself up on an elbow.

"I'm trying to imagine what the painting you'll do of this will look like."

Noah smiles down at me and ruffles my hair. "I could never paint something like that. Not by myself. You'll help me?"

"Of course. But there's always other mediums," I remind him with a grin, reaching for his camera.


End file.
